The sun came up. And the memories of the previous evening made clear that I had two choices. I could stay in my room and never come out or I could face up to my lies. I tried the first option for a few hours and when that did not seem like a viable long term solution, I did the only thing that I knew to do, I ran to my church.
I called two couples that I trusted and they were at the door. I poured out my heart and mess and fears and admitted that I had no idea what to do next. There in my living room, each with questions and concerns and unknowns, we trusted each other and God to help. By the next afternoon, Lucas and I were in the office of a counselor who suggested that I should consider attending a recovery meeting. (This was gracious counselor code for you need help.)
I didn't know what else to do, so I went. I wore a black Punk'd t-shirt and ratty jeans and sat on the back row. Immediately, all I could think about was that I was nothing like these people. Then I went home. The next morning, it was 10:30am and I was already losing my mind with worry about how I was going to make it through the day. So I drove back to the meeting place. And people were there. They gave me this fat book and told me to read it. I got a silver disk that they called a chip and said that I would try this thing called staying sober for 24 hours, but I still didn't think that I belonged.
I made it 5 more hours and I wanted to drink so bad. I was a lunatic. In self-preservation, Lucas asked if I had thought about going to another meeting. Dear, Lord! I must be really sick if I needed to go back AGAIN. This time I went to a different building. The sign said it was a women's meeting. I was still in the black dirty t-shirt and jeans. I had added a black hoodie to try and hide the shaking. I walked in and in front of me stood a room full of women that looked like they could have been my mom and sister and Sunday School teacher. One reminded me of my aunt that is as prim and proper as they come.
I'm confident that I displayed sufficient outward clues of my desperation, but they didn't seem to care. I sat between two of the most confident and together looking ones and I just sunk into my chair. The tears started falling and they would not stop. I didn't understand it in that moment because I was so full of fear, but I had just found a new church. It lasted exactly an hour. They passed a basket and they said the Lord's Prayer. I found this mildly comforting, but my very narrow view of worship told me to proceed with caution.
I went back everyday. Some days I sat next to people that looked like me. Somedays I took Snicker's bars from the older men who appeared to have some experience that I lacked. Somedays I heard stories about adventures that were very different from mine. But, they all talked about turning my will over to the care of God.
I had been there a few weeks and was having a rough day. I was scared and angry and they just kept talking about things like 'Let go and let God.' It was all I could handle. I'm not sure if I had ever spoken much before, but they heard my voice that day. Through some colorful language and fierce passion, I explained to them that I knew a thing or two about God. It was clear in my mind that if God could have saved me, I would not have ended up in these damp dingy rooms with a pounding head and a broken soul.
AND NO ONE EVEN FLINCHED
They let my pain hang in the air and one of my favorite men in the room said in his rough voice, "We're glad you are here. Keep comin' back." That was it. No one tried to fix me. No one told me I was doing anything wrong. They gave me some suggestions about how they made it through days 26-41 and hugged me. I didn't get shamed. No one said, "Oh, honey, I'll pray for you..."
They let me be right where I was supposed to be and never left me alone. I called them at all hours of the night. I took them with me when I was scared of my own shadow. They were the Church to me in ways that I didn't even know existed. These brothers and sisters became my lifeline. I felt that the world outside those rooms had no idea what was going on in my bat-shit crazy mind, but they did. And each day they gave me a little shot of hope that I could go another 24 hours.
All my life, I believed that church was somewhere you went. It didn't matter that I sang a song that told me it was the people. I believed that we "went to" church. The rooms of recovery taught me that the Church meets me where I am.
On the back porch.
In the psych ward.
In detox.
In meetings.
Over coffee.
While sharing stories.
While crying.
While admitting our failures.
While reconciling our brokenness.
Wherever I am, the arm of my new church reached. And this left me in a painful limbo. How do I reconcile this place that has been Church for me in ways that I can't even quantify with the experience that I have when I am taking communion? What would it look like if these two things came together to be a complete picture in my life? I had no clue. Honestly, it did not feel like any kind of church that I had ever known.
No comments:
Post a Comment